Knight's Ransom (The First Argentines #1)

Ransom watched him for a moment longer, wishing he could follow. Sir William was a true knight and more of a brother to Ransom than Marcus had ever been. The brothers had never been playmates—Marcus was four years older, and he’d always gone off with Father on his duties as head of the estate.

“On, Gemmell,” Ransom said, shifting in the saddle.

The steed obeyed and took the fork in the road. The road cut through a light grouping of yew trees, and Ransom kept his eye on the thick branches, hoping no thieves lurked there waiting to rob him. But there was nothing beyond a few wagons and small encampments. After clearing the rise, a meadow of yellow broom opened before him, along with a view of the castle his father was still building. The years had added to its height, but there were still some timbers framed along the walls along with ropes and winches for hauling stones to the higher towers. It seemed a small village had been built up around the base of the keep, with two dozen or so wattle-and-daub houses made of timber and mud. Living in the shadow of a castle provided protection, but these seemed to be skilled workers, not farmers. A few pens with sheep and goats could be seen, and the road was riddled with ruts and puddles.

No one took notice of Ransom as he approached, his horse’s hooves thudding in the dirt. He saw workers on the walls, many laboring vigorously despite the lateness of the day. Carts with cut stones and timbers were brought up the road to the main oak door of the castle. Ransom joined the flow and proceeded to the gate.

When he got there, a sentry halted him. “What’s your business, lad? You here looking for work with Lord Barton? We got enough guards. Too many if you ask me, and you’re too young.”

Ransom stared at the man, not recognizing him or anyone else.

“I’m Lord Barton’s son,” he said, his voice suddenly squeaking. He cleared his throat.

The sentry looked at him incredulously. “You’re not his . . .” Then his voice trailed off, and his eyes widened with surprise.

“I’m Marshall, the second eldest,” Ransom said.

The sentry’s eyes bugged out. He grabbed the other sentry and shoved him. “On your way, man! Marshall’s home!”



Night had settled over the keep, and a crackling fire lit the hearth. Ransom sat on a bench, his stomach full of venison and carrots and bread aplenty. His younger sister, Maeg, stared at him as if he were a particularly interesting stranger. She was probably seven or eight and shared his coloring, but it was clear she didn’t remember him well. She stared at Ransom the way he used to stare at Claire—interested but bashful—at the beginning of his stay in Kingfountain. Thinking about her brought back the awful reality that he might never see her again.

His mother, Lady Sibyl, had greeted him with relief and surprise and many tears. But his father, Lord Barton, hadn’t appeared yet, and neither had his older brother. Both, his mother had told him, were directing stone masons on repairs for a tower wall and roof.

The food he ate was tasteless as he awaited their return. Finally, noise from the front of the castle announced their arrival. The two hunting dogs, Manx and Moor, lifted their heads and began whining. Ransom’s stomach clenched with worry as he rose from the bench to greet his father. His mother and sister also rose.

Lord Barton was a big man and a stern one. He’d lost an eye in one of the battles of the civil war and wore a patch over the socket that had a lead ingot sewn into the leather. His hair was mostly gone, but he had a scraggly brown beard streaked with gray. He had big arms, a short temper, and a slightly menacing look.

He paused at the threshold for a moment, looking around the room in confusion before his eyes settled on Ransom. When they’d last seen each other, Ransom had been a child. Now he was nearly the size of a man.

“The runt sprouted,” his father said with a gruff chuckle. He strode into the hall, claiming it with his outsized presence. Behind him came a broad-shouldered young man, one who also had a wispy beard. The father and son had clearly been hammered from the same forge. Ransom’s appearance had always favored his mother, although he had his father’s bulk.

The brother gave Ransom a wary look, a warning look.

“Hello, Father,” Ransom said, grateful his voice hadn’t broken again.

“‘Father’ is it?” said Lord Barton. “Now you claim me, after your true father is dead?”

“John,” said Lady Sibyl, her voice drenched in pain, “our son was a hostage.”

“Did you ask to come back to the Heath, lad? Or were you, as I’ve heard, happy to eat from the king’s table? What do you call yourself, lad? The name I gave you, or the name you were given there? We’ve heard all about you, Ransom.”

The young man’s guts twisted with dread and humiliation. He didn’t know what to say, how to respond to the utter lack of love or concern coming from his father. A stifled sob made him turn his neck, and he saw tears dripping down Lady Sibyl’s cheeks. Maeg was hiding behind her mother’s skirts, looking at their father with an expression of fear.